Ben Peek | Posts.
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Posts.

Eventually, I like to think the final marker with my thesis will actually, y'know, mark it. I am waiting, still, yes, still, for one marker. Two markers have returned it, but I apparently will not be told anything about marks until this final, lingering, individual returns...

I'm driving home from work today, listening to the radio, and listening to the voice in the radio talk about EPs, albums, and singles, and it occurs me that collections and anthologies have a strong connection to albums. The difference, however, is a lot of bands...

"Mr Stingray?" He was still French, and villainous. I could hear a cat purring. "Mr. Stingray, must we do this every time I call?" Possibly, I thought, and flicked my tail in enjoyment. I told him otherwise. "We have another job for you, Mr. Stingray. A driver. A race...

Justine Larbalestier explained how she wrote a novel. Others followed. They are all wrong, however. Spreadsheets are not how you write a novel. Fucking horror of an idea that is. And typing? Typing is a secondary action, I assure you. It happens only after you've...

I saw Clerks when I was nineteen and working a meaningless job in a cinema. At the time, it was the kind of film I could connect with. Clerks, the first film by Kevin Smith, is about a day in the life of Dante Hicks and...

Stephanie Campisi and I have sold our surreal flower, 'The Nabokov (Набоков)' to Jason Erik Lundberg and Janet Chui's A Field Guild to Surreal Botany. It will be illustrated by Chui in the book, which, y'know, is totally why you want to be in this...

"Mr Stingray?" He had a French, Bond Villain accent. "Is this Mr. Stingray I am talking too?" I fondled the phone with my stinger and said it was. "The Crocodile Hunter." A pause, a spit. "The Crocodile Hunter, he will be upon you soon. He is doing his...